Death Metaphors
by Galaxia Alpha
Summary: A series of IchiRuki moments taking place several years after the anime while Ichigo is in college. Different chapters explore different writing styles and metaphors abound. Chapters aren't necessarily chronological, but are linked by reoccurring themes
1. Making Love I

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach and I'm not making any money off of it.

**Premise: **This will be a collection of Ichigo/Rukia moments, varying in length but all existing in the same continuity, though not necessarily chronologically. I'm using this as a place to challenge my writing skills, so you may see some varying styles throughout this series and maybe even a few experimental chapters. As the title suggests, metaphors will most likely abound.

**Ratings:** There will be no sex and no cursing. But there may be some adult themes, so I'm rating this PG-13.

**Continuity:** This series starts with Ichigo in college, so we're several years past the anime and manga.

**Feedback:** Give me constructive criticism and I'll give you better stories. Thanks!

(This first part isn't what you might think from the title…)

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Part 1** – **Making Love**

The only times they aren't fighting with each other are when they are fighting Hollows. In those moments, he and she dance across each other's paths, he with his long sweeping strides and she on her toes in a graceful dance. There is the pure-white ribbon-slash of Rukia's sword and the Hollow stands as a frozen statue, icicles hanging off the hole in its chest. Ichigo is in her wake, slipping past the billowing of her night-black robes and the sweep of her obsidian hair as she turns to watch him leap through the air and swipe his sword through the sickly opal mask of the Hollow. It isn't white. He can't call it white—not after seeing Rukia's Zanpakuto for the first time all those years ago.

And he wonders, as his toes touch the ground and his stance collapses into a crouch to break the impact, what would his Bankai look like next to hers?

Standing slowly, he watches as the Hollow disappears, feeling her coming toward him from behind, knowing that she will be beside him soon and waiting… waiting…

What they are doing is forbidden. Shinigami do not fight together—not like this—sharing opponents, sharing the battle-high, sharing reiatsu. He doesn't know why they started, but he knows now why it is taboo.

The only times they aren't fighting with each other are when they are fighting Hollows. Then, they are making love.

He glances down at her next to him, her cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted. It reminds him of the first time he showed her how to make a snowman, the cold reddening her skin. But she seemed to belong there, in the billowing mass of white snowflakes, and as she stood on his lawn, looking up at the sky and opening her mouth to catch the snow on her tongue, he'd thought she might be an ice sculpture—

HOLLOW. They both turn simultaneously, sensing the second Hollow coming from behind. A moment later they see it, large and ugly and foaming at the lips. This time he takes the lead, and flash-steps ahead, drawing the Hollow's attentions with low blows to its torso while she soars by overhead, swinging her leg around in a spin that cracks the Hollow's mask, but doesn't break it. And he knows she is dragging things out, that she wants more.

So they continue weaving past each other under the sparkle of midnight stars, to the song of the wind whipping through their robes. Every time she attacks he feels it, the swell in her reiatsu washing over him with the taste of her inside, his own returning like the under-toe of a wave as he strikes the Hollow again—another slash to its leg, a loaded punch to the arm, a whip-kick to the stomach.

Finally the Hollow screams, one long anguished sound of barbed wire and fangs that rips through their souls before its mask crumbles under the wear of their attacks. Then, it is gone.

They stand motionless in between moments of time, before he says her name gently. "Are there any more?" he asks.

She is breathing quickly, short gasps of air that interweave with the soft breeze. Reaching into her pocket reluctantly, she pulls out her cellphone, letting her sapphire eyes drop to the screen. He waits for her to look up again because he wants to see that color in her eyes before it fades. It's a color he's sure only he knows about.

When she meets his gaze, it's already almost gone. "No. There were only two."

He turns away, looking up at the sky and hefting his sword over his back, hand lingering at the hilt. "Well, I guess that's all then."

"Of course that's all," she says, with characteristic harshness.

He shrugs, and they begin walking back to his dorm. They don't speak again until they reach his front door. Staring at the doorknob, he says, "Tomorrow night at my place again?"

She smirks. "Eight on the dot. If you're late I'll beat you with my sword."

Already turning the handle and carefully timing his movements, he scoffs and says, "I'd like to see you try."

He catches a glimpse of her brows lowering over an angry glare as she raises her fist to punch him, but he's got the door closed safely between them before she can deliver her attack. He tiptoes to his room even though he makes no sound as a Shinigami, glancing at his roommate as he falls back into his body that is sprawled out on his narrow bed. Yawning and stretching sore muscles, he puts his Substitute Shinigami badge in the drawer of his nightstand, hell butterflies fluttering inside of him at the thought of tomorrow night at eight.

He sleeps to the lingering scent of her reiatsu on his.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


	2. Iambic Pentameter

**Disclaimer:** If it's from the manga or anime, I don't own it. I'm not making any money off of this either.

**Summary:** This one is meant to be a little lighter and there isn't really a metaphor here. Ichigo is plagued by iambic pentameter.

**A/N:** In order to understand this little fic, you're going to need to know what iambic pentameter is (didn't know you were going to get an English lesson today, did you?). Iambic pentameter is a form of verse with a ten syllable line structure. Both Shakespeare and Chaucer used it. Here are the basic rules for writing in iambic pentameter (rule two and three are kinda the same):

1) Each line must be ten syllables long.

3) Each line is really five sets of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable.

2) The syllables must alternate unstressed with stressed. The first syllable is unstressed and the last should be stressed. It ends up sounding like this:

da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM

Really simple iambic pentameter ends up sounding very sing-song like.

To fully enjoy this fic, read every iambic pentameter line (they're all in italics throughout this story) in an annoying sing-song voice.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Iambic Pentameter**

He's thinking in iambic pentameter and he can't stop.

It started sometime in the middle of his literature class while discussing Chaucer. One moment he was reading about the massive gap in the Wife of Bath's teeth and then suddenly, everything was in five-meter lines. He couldn't even sit outside and eat his lunch in peace.

_My apple looks so red and juicy good!_

He glares down at the fruit in his hand and growls under his breath. What kind of dumb sentence was that? Not only is he thinking in iambic pentameter, but he's thinking in _bad_ iambic pentameter.

Sighing, he leans back on the park bench, taking a bite of his fruit and munching it with an angry scowl scrolled across his lips. It's the very beginning of fall and the first of the leaves are starting to drift off the trees. He's facing the North Campus building, a huge structure of gray granite that makes him think of a fat, squat dwarf. It's hideous.

_The architect who made that was on crack!_

_Shut up! _he thinks angrily at the voice in his head.

_They say only the crazed talk to themselves. _

He's about to break something. Trying to drown out the sound of his thinking, he takes another bite out of his apple and chews very loudly. Maybe he should blame this on his literature teacher for the verse-writing assignment he had to do last week. It's a little known secret, but he's actually very good at poetry. Of course, he picked a college on the other side of the country so that he could continue to keep that secret. Back home, his reputation as the tough, strong, moody, and silent Kurosaki Ichigo is well-maintained. The only one who might even have a chance of finding out otherwise is Rukia. He pictures her sitting on his floor, eyes bulging and mouth drooling as she reads his manga. Yeah, his secret is safe.

Here at school, people think of him as a romantic, and he likes this double life—or triple if you count his nighttime Shinigami escapades. When he gets tired of one, he can always retreat to another. Or maybe it's not boredom that drives him to create these multiple facades…

_You hide behind these many masks you wear._

He sighs again, thinks, _Quiet, you_, and takes another noisy bite of his apple.

&&&&&&&&&

"Oh Iiiichigooooooo!"

Ichigo cringes as he crests the last step of the staircase to the second floor humanities department. Backpack slung casually over one shoulder, he shoves his hands in his pockets and ignores the high-pitched voice and the frenzied shuffling coming toward him from behind him.

"Ichigo, my love, wait!"

A brunette head bobs up next to him, attached to the tall and attractive body of Jennine Kenjikun. She grins and his brain describes it as "smiling brightly" because her lipstick is such an obnoxious shade of fire-red. Of course, he knows it's a trap and he glances quickly away, before he can be hypnotized into staring at that crazily conspicuous color.

She falls into step beside him and he sighs, saying, "What do you want Jennine?" with the same casual air he uses in his long, ambling strides.

"You."

He almost chokes and tries not to let any reaction show on his face. _A slut that does not like to be denied!_ his iambic pentameter obsessed inner-voice shouts. "I don't like forward girls," he responds. He still won't look at her, eyes focused on the classroom down the hall that he is going to.

Jennine giggles seductively. "That's such a lie. Of course you do. I know your type."

Does she? Well, considering the amount of guys she's dated, she might… But then, how many of those guys run around carrying huge Zanpakuto at night? _No clue has she that you're a death god freak!_

Why did every one of those lines need to end with a damn explanation point?

"I'm not interested, Jennine. Look, there are plenty of guys who want you. Why don't you got after one of _them_?"

"Because they're all too easy. But you," he glances at her in time to see her wink a sparkling green eye, "You play hard to get."

"What? I'm not playing!"

Again she's laughing. She skips ahead of him, shrugging, long brown hair shimmering down her back, and spins around suddenly to face him. He's forced to stop, shoes squeaking against the floor. He blinks down at her sweet and poison smile.

"We'll see," she says.

And his mind responds with: _Her bouncy bosom is a fruitful tree!_

That's sick. He sounds like Kon. He wonders for a moment if maybe Kon has been in his head all along, if maybe he's the one causing him to think of all these stupid lines. Is that possible? Can a modified soul and a real soul share a body at the same time—

"Ichigo."

He blinks suddenly. Jennine's eyes are sparkling with mirth.

"You're staring."

His eyes narrow angrily, trying to play off the blush. "I'm not that kind of guy!" Then he roughly walks around her, determined to get to his next class without anymore dialogue.

&&&&&&&&&

Halfway through math class and what is he thinking?

_The integral of two-squared-why is four!_

_And to return to where you were, derive!_

_du-DUM-du-DUM-du-DUM-duh, wow, you're DUM!_

Somebody, please, help!

&&&&&&&&

_Oh look! In five more minutes class will end!_

_Our calculators we will put to bed!_

Ichigo slams his head against his desk.

"Kurosaki-kun, are you alright?" his teacher asks.

He growls.

&&&&&&&&&&

When he finally gets home in the evening after a long day of classes, he is going out of his iambic-obsessed mind. He stands in his dorm room, staring at his bookcase with a maniacal rage lighting his amber eyes. Several of the books laugh at him.

"Now Shakespeare! For your mocking you shall die!" He reaches for _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. That book would be the first to go, in all it's ten-syllable verse glory.

"Ichigo… what are you doing? And why are you speaking like that?"

Ichigo spins around, book forgotten. His eyes widen. Rukia is standing in the middle of his room in her Shinigami robes, hands on her hips and a suspicious look on her face. "What do you want?" he says carefully. Very good, just keep it less than ten syllables.

"There's a hollow," she says, as if he should already know.

"Cannot you by yourself dispatch this foe?" He slaps both hands over his mouth as soon as the words escape. He said that out loud? He feels himself blushing and wants to slam his head against the wall.

"You are speaking funny again. Why?"

"_I'm_ speaking funny? You sound like you came out of the Edo era."

"Are you insulting the way I talk?"

He throws up his hands and rolls his eyes, but doesn't answer. Instead he grumbles, "It's iambic pentameter."

"Eh?"

He looks at her and shakes his head. "Verse—poetry—ah, don't worry about it."

"Ichigo, I know what verse is. We _do_ have literature in Soul Society."

"You do?"

She looks at him like he must be stupid. (_Her looks are scathing like a witch's glare_). "Of course. We are more advanced than humans," she says.

He gives her a skeptical look.

"I'll prove it to you, idiot."

_I'm sure that what she says must be a lie. _"Whatever."

She smirks then, and the expression changes the shape of her eyes. It makes her look more sinister, but also more enticing. "You'll see," she says in words of thick honey. Then she tosses her sleek black hair over a thin shoulder and spins gracefully on her heel. "Let's go. There is Hollow activity at the river." Jumping onto the windowsill, she pauses halfway in shadow, and glances at him over her shoulder.

He waits, wondering why she has stopped, her features drawn in gothic contrast under the wan lighting.

"Ichigo, you're staring."

It's the second time he's heard that today, but this time it feels completely different. Since coming to college, they have passed the stage of 'awkward relationship' that they spent so many years immersed in. These days, there is simply unspoken understanding of what they are to each other. It's an understanding built on life or death battles, on the swing of a sword, on the celebration of battle victory and the self-revealing of loss. He catches the glint of the moonlight on the hilt of her sword at her waist and he doesn't blush like he did with Jennine, doesn't get angry or defensive. He simply smirks and slips his Shinigami Substitute badge out of his desk drawer.

Her eyes glitter with a premonition of that turquoise color only he knows. "I'll race you," she says with red-lined upturned lips.

And as she turns, jumping out the window in a flash of pale skin and black fabric, he finds himself without any way to describe her, an English major without the right words.

_Damn, she's broken my iambic._

He's not sure if he's relieved that the sing-song voice in his head is gone, or angry that it's only her that can rid him of it.

&&&&&&&&&

A/N: Well, that was fun, though a tad strange. Thanks for the reviews!


	3. Lady MacBeth I

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** Rukia is haunted by her past.

**A/N:** This one does have a metaphor, which I stole from Shakespeare. What can I say, Will is just too good (yes, Mr. Shakespeare and I are on a first-name basis). There will be a continuation to this chapter somewhere down the line.

I wrote this chapter about three times before I liked it enough to post. I kept trying slightly different writing styles. All the while, "form follows function" was thundering through my head. But I just couldn't seem to find the right form.

Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed. I'm sorry I didn't get to respond to the reviews personally this time around. I'll be better next time, I promise.

**&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&**

**Lady MacBeth I**

Like a steeple on the worn rooftop, she stands, a white figure clothed in black. The fallen husks of autumn-struck leaves are strewn around her in splashes of yellows and browns and reds. Reds. Reds like the bleeding of a wound. Reds like the lips she licks with a pointed pink tongue. Reds like she imagines the color of her heart would be if she had one.

In her hands, she holds the white line of her sword, splitting the swollen, overcast heavens in two. The air is thick with moisture and the premonition of life-fluid falling from an open gash in the sky, down…

down

down

down to the ground below where a man is standing on a street corner with a sly smile and licentious looks, talking (not with words but with wandering hands and hungry lips and guttural moans) to a woman in high heels and bright makeup and a skirt so short that it distracts enough to hide who she really is.

Sometimes being bold is the best disguise.

Through half-lidded eyes, Rukia gazes impassively at the blade in her small, little-girl hands.

She is a figure of death, expressionless, unmoving, and ethereal.

But inside her mind there is violent motion.

_Sode_ _no Shirayuki._

She wavers a little, as if in a trance.

_They say you are the most beautiful of all the Zanpakutos in Soul Society. A Zanpakuto of the purest white, like a crystal of ice._

She smiles, a bitter expression that looks harsh and cruel. Below her, the man and the woman laugh suddenly, the sound intertwining with the whining of the wind and the whipping of her robes and the falling of the leaves. The sounds make her feel invisible, hidden. Though she knows that's a lie.

_Do you remember? Do remember that time we killed that Arrancar in Hueco Mundo? Do you remember as he lay in a pool of feathers and blood from his severed wings, he told us that the moment before I struck him with your first release he saw a bright flash of light, so clean, so pure, that he thought he was looking into the face of a god._

_And_ _I told him he was mistaken._

How long ago had that been now? Two years? She couldn't keep track of the time. She couldn't count the number of times the trees had stood bare, the number of times the world had draped itself in a cover of ivory snowfall. Time was strange in this human world. It came in cycles, in sets of routine that didn't exist in Soul Society.

_Would it be easier if I understood time? Could it carry me on, take me out of the past and bring me forward to something new? Is it like that for Ichigo?_

_Do you remember it, Sode no Shirayuki? Do you remember that first time he saw you in your released form? Dumb idiot stared like an awe-struck child. _

"_It really is all white," he said once. He doesn't get it. I don't know why, but I expected him to see._

_You are not all white. You have a spot of blood on you Sode_ _no Shirayuki._

_You've_ _had it since the day I killed Kaien, when I was just a little girl. I was too young to be wielding a weapon—not because of what I did, but because I couldn't handle doing it. I still can't handle it, even after all these years. Does that mean I'm still too young?_

_I remember trembling in mind-numbing fear as I stared at his body on the muddy ground, stared at the crimson river of rain pooling around my feet. I held you up to those teardrops of heaven, hoping to wash it all away, to see white again, but it didn't work and I've never seen white again. _

_You are stained Sode_ _no Shirayuki. My soul is stained. _

She swings the sword around quickly in the air and drops soundlessly to her knees, laying the blade flat across them. With smooth, practiced moves, she loosens the sash of her robes and slips one pale arm out from the sleeve, unwrapping a layer of her chest bindings and ripping the fabric with her teeth.

_Stained._ _Marred. Abhored._

She wraps the material around one hand, the other supporting the tip of her sword in an open palm. There is the sound of laughter from below again, but this time she hears it as an accusation, as a coded whisper of a jaded word: _murderer._

_Dirty. Unholy. Tainted._

The first brushes of the cloth in her hand against the metal of her sword are slow and forceful, deliberate. Through squinted eyes of vivid violet, she watches her own movements.

_Blood._ _Spot of blood. Undimmed by time._

_And_ _it grows. With every stroke of my hand it grows. Always, it grows._

Her scrubbing is more frenzied now. Not deliberate, but desperate. She's losing herself in the action. She can't even hear the couple below the rooftop anymore, oblivious to the exchange of money and the moans of pleasure. She doesn't need to. She's a harlot herself.

She's plunged her sword into the heart of two men. One died and one is alive and watching.

She feels him a few rooftops away and even after all these years, he still has no idea how to mask his reitsu. She's known he was there from the start. He's the only one she's ever allowed to watch her clean her sword.

And it's his blood on the blade too, and the blood of everyone he's ever killed.

_Out spot._ _Out. Out._

_Out._

_Out._

_OUT._

Palm warm with the friction of her scrubbing, she closes her eyes and all she sees is reds. Her body shakes, knees grinding against the shingles on the roof. All she wants is to wash it away. All she wants is to be clean. But she opens her eyes again and she knows that's not possible, because her Zanpakuto is not white like everyone thinks and it makes her sick inside to know that she hides it so well.

When she finally stops scrubbing, body bent over and fingers raw, she sees her blade completely covered in reds. And she knows the red wasn't the spot, the white was, and that this is what is underneath.

A stained soul.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

A/N: Yes, I know that was short, but for some reason, it was difficult to write. Anyway, thanks for reading!


	4. Tomato Boy

**Rating: **A pretty solid G.

**Summary: **A worn-out Ichigo calls home.

**Spoilers:** Sorry, I've been forgetting to put spoiler warnings in my chapters. If you don't know the secret identity of Ichigo's dad yet, don't read this unless you want to be spoiled.

**A/N:** Well, this isn't the grand update I was hoping for. I know it's been a while but I've been horribly sick and haven't been able to concentrate on much. Also, my focus has kind of been on the Final Fantasy VII saga I'm writing.

Thank you so much for all the reviews. You guys are all so helpful and encouraging. I also really appreciate that some of you have left reviews that are more like literary discussions. I love hearing what you think.

I'll admit, this chapter is kind of a filler, though hopefully not useless. In my opinion, "filler" and "useless" should not be synonymous, unlike in some places (cough Naruto cough). There's some much heavier stuff on the way, but I wanted to make sure this collection of one-shots didn't get a weighed down feeling. That means there will be lighter chapters like this one thrown in.

Thanks again for reading folks!

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Dialogue: Tomato Boy**

"Hello?"

"Hey Dad."

"Gasp! You mean my son remembered he has a father?"

"Well, I was hoping a stork had dropped me off…"

"Oh Masaki! He grows up, leaves the house and forgets all about the people who raised him, changed his diapers, helped him blow his nose, got covered in baby goo whenever he spat up. My boy is a man now! It's so sad. I bet you even shave now, don't you son?"

"Dad, I've been shaving for years."

"What? I missed the shaving era? How did that happen?!"

"It's not over. I haven't stopped needing to shave."

"All right, it's decided! We'll shave together next time you come home. It will be quality bonding time, man-to-man."

"I'm not shaving with you!"

"You should grow a goatee too. Girl's like that. Just like your old man. Oh, wait, didn't I…? Oh yes, I think I did! I think I recall Rukia saying in passing that she likes facial hair on men. Just a casual conversation, of course. You know, I talk to her more than I do my own son, my flesh and blood… my… my mini-me."

"That's because you call her all the time."

"Of course I do! She's like an adopted daughter, practically family. You know son, if you're wondering, I approve of her. You don't have to hold back…"

"I wasn't wondering."

"Don't you care what your father thinks?"

Sigh.

"…"

"…"

"So, how have you been, Ichigo?"

"Tired."

"You sound horrible."

"Been studying for finals and I don't get to sleep much anyway, you know, with the whole playing death god thing. Course, I can't tell anybody that. They'd think I was a lunatic or something. I'm not sure what's worse though. My roommate thinks I'm in a gang. He's afraid to talk to me."

"Why?"

"You know, I go out every night and I come back with bruises and stuff. I've got enough scars to be a gang member or something. Plus, there's that long one on my arm from Aizen. It's harder to hide, unless I want to wear long sleeves for the rest of my life. But at least that's better than my next door neighbor. He thinks I'm a masochist."

"Haha! Good thing I took precautions! Being the loving, phenomenal father that I am, I made sure you'd never have need to direct anger on yourself. I sacrificed myself everyday to attack you when you came home from school to give you a positive outlet for your frustrations."

"You call that a positive outlet?"

"Of course! And that's why you never did drugs."

"Ugh."

"…You really are tired, Ichigo."

"Why do you say that?"

"Your comebacks are pathetic."

"Thanks."

"…"

"…"

"I can see it's time for a father-son heart-to-heart. Listen carefully and I'll give you some wise advice from my many years of priceless experience. What is a tomato, a fruit or a vegetable?"

"I'll tell you who's a fruit…"

"You know, for a son who used to hide Shakespeare in his manga to look like he was normal, you really aren't very bright."

"Do you have a point other than embarrassing me?"

"Embarrass you? In front of whom? Oh wait…. Hehehe. I get it. Rukia-chaaaaan! I know you're theeeeere!"

"This has to be child abuse."

"Then she's not there?"

"No."

"Oh."

"What's with that depressed sound? Why does it matter if she's here?"

"Hehehe."

"Pervert."

"…"

"Well? You were saying?"

"The point is that even though everyone argues over what a tomato is, it's still an important culinary ingredient! It's yummy no matter what you call it! …You know, I tried to live in two worlds once."

"What happened?"

"I decided it was easier to be a senile old man."

"There is something seriously wrong with you."

"Oh, Ichigo, my son, it's just that I miss you so much. I remember the days when you used to try to stick carrots up your nose and I'd have to help you because your little fingers kept slipping."

"Why the hell did you have to bring that up? I don't need these disturbing memories. To this day I'm afraid of carrots."

"Such a sensitive soul. I knew it was a bad idea to let your mom read all that Victorian era mumbo-jumbo to you while you were still in the crib. That's why you cried so much as a child."

"What? I didn't cry a lot as a child! I just had sensitive eyes!"

"You probably still cry at night… Oh, my poor son…"

"I don't cry!"

"Are you trying to say you're tough?"

"Hell yes! I can beat your sorry wrinkled butt…"

"Hehe… You haven't surpassed your old man yet, boy, but I admire the spirit. It's the spirit of a fighter."

"I've gotten stronger since you've last seen me."

"That's my boy! You're a Kurosaki! We are men to be feared! Kurosaki's don't give up and Kurosaki's are never too tired to fight!!!"

"Ugh… do you have to yell?"

"Yes. I think all those times I kicked you in the head have made you dense."

"I really need to get back to studying."

"Rukia is coming over soon, isn't she?"

"No comment."

"You can't use a line like 'no comment' on your dad! It's wrong."

"I really do need to study though."

"Okay, okay. I can take the hint. Do your best, Tomato Boy!"

"Hey Dad?"

"Yes, Son?"

"Thanks."

"Of course."

"And Dad? …Please don't start calling me Tomato Boy."

"I'm going to eat you!"

Click.

"Ichigo? ….Hello? …Hellooooooooooooooooooooo?"

&&&&&&&&&&&

**A/N:** You may ask why I wrote a piece of pure dialogue. I think dialogue has always been a weakness of mine, so this seemed like a good way to practice.


	5. Blood Bond

**Rating:** PG

**Spoilers:** None that I can think of.

**A/N:** This is my attempt at a drabble. It's exactly 100 words, including the title (which is integral to the text). My goal here was to practice writing concisely yet meaningfully. Hope it worked!

&&&&&&&&&

"**Blood Bond."**

That's what Sado said the first time they fought together, as he wiped blood-tinctured sweat from the tip of his prominent nose.

Ichigo peered up at him through streamers of wet, flame-orange hair, and flexed raw, bleeding fists. "What?"

"We mix blood, so we are bonded."

Rolling his eyes toward the battered bullies shivering and moaning on the stained grass, Ichigo shrugged. "Whatever." He didn't understand.

But now, watching the glittering bone-white hollow's mask dissolve into misty night, he touches the long red line on Rukia's flushed cheek with a soiled finger and says, "Blood bond."

He understands.

&&&&&&&&&


	6. Question and Answer

**Rating: **PG

**Spoilers:** None

**A/N:** Another drabble. I was in a drabble mood today. I hope this one makes sense. It's 100 words without the title.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Question and Answer**

Staring out the window, peeling paint from the sill, Rukia says, "Renji asked if I ever loved him today."

Ichigo's pen hovers over the worn wood of his desk. He blinks blindly at a polynomial equation. "What did you say?"

"I kissed him. On the cheek. It was the only way I could answer."

The pen clicks against the floor. He stands, stopping behind her. His hands cover hers, thumbs pressed into her wrists to feel her pulse.

She smiles. "And this is the only way you could ask."

Small delicate lips touch bare fine-haired skin over a beating heart.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&


	7. Making Love II

**Rating:** PGish? I'm bad with ratings.

**Spoilers:** None really. Well, I guess if you don't know about Ichigo's bankai, there are kinda spoilers, but even then only vaguely.

**A/N:** Assume Rukia has achieved bankai, because I believe she has.

I'm back to my most natural style of writing, after a lot of chapters of experimentation. Lot's of fragments and twisted grammar. The English language is my sandbox. Hehe. If this is difficult to follow, please tell me! I'm here to learn.

Thank you for all the comments and reviews! Your feedback is so valuable.

Wow, look at me, Little-Miss-Updater. There may eventually be a third part to this… maybe? Enjoy!

&&&&&&&&&&

**Making Love II**

There is the roar of a Hollow rumbling through the air (through his soul), ripping and clawing with gnarled desire at the pieces of him, and it feels like a column of ice staked through his heart. _This one… this one was different._ A high level Hollow, but more than that, it was something familiar. A taste in his mouth that he can't quite remember, like the smell of the shampoo his mother used to use that he knows he loved then, but can no longer recall.

He crouches on the rooftop, trembling with the simmering power of his exposed Bankai, and watches the mask of the huge Hollow crack into long, deadly shards that drop to the ground like glittering crystals. He watches because it hurts to. It hurts to see the milky-white eyes skewed into slanted lines of pain, the crimson-dawn red of lips fading to night, the slope of a cheek that was once smooth and clean…

He catches one clear view of the exposed face before the hollow disappears completely, and with the rustling of thread-bare and frayed black robes, he says, "I went to school with him. He moved when I was twelve."

Still staring down at the empty space where the Hollow was, hands flat against the rough shingles, he hears her footsteps beside him. He turns to her small sandaled feet, white socks stained, and then up to the stormy blue eyes that only turn this color when she is trying to offer comfort.

"We gave him back his honor," she says from behind him. "He can have peace now."

He watches her lips move with careful attention. Peace. "Yeah."

A small delicate hand of battle-hardened strength falls against his shoulder and then her voice again: "Let's go," before she jumps from the roof to the ground and begins walking.

But when his own feet connect with unyielding concrete, he cannot move. Her back is framed by the veiled light of a streetlamp and he can't let go of his Bankai, can't let that dark, raw, hunger, the tattered edges of insatiable power, disperse into quiet calm. There is a hole inside of him where the air blows through and he's tired of the sound whistling by his ears like the voice of that Hollow dying. Zangetsu is yearning, desiring, _demanding_…

And he wonders if this is his own hollow, but he feels such need and there is an instinct that he cannot name moving his hands and his lips. His voice is the tearing of heavy fabric: "Rukia. Prepare yourself."

She turns, eyes following the line of his extended sword to the tight stance of his body and the madness in his eyes. "Ichigo, what are you doing?"

"Use your Bankai, Rukia."

"Ichigo?"

"I'm coming."

And it all feels like reflex. Like reflex when he runs toward her, feet grating against concrete, arms raised and sword glinting in the streetlamp, like reflex when he looks at her with all that desperate, desperate need.

Like reflex when she whispers, "Bankai." Like reflex when their swords cross, black on white, opposite extremes coming together to form a whole, attracted to a point of complete synergy. Like reflex when she looks at him with eyes a color he's never seen before.

And the feeling: his and her reiatsu twisting together, Bankai merging, enclosing them in a sphere of energy that isn't black or white but is every color, every emotion possible all at once with no restraint. This is beyond human senses, beyond words and touch. She is inside of him and he in her and their swords are one and this is what they've always been leading towards, always been seeking in every battle, every shared shedding of blood, what they've always stopped short of.

Because fighting side-by-side had always been just the foreplay. This was making love.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


	8. Morning Convergence

**Rating:** Totally PG

**Spoilers:** Umm… none?

**A/N: **I wrote this a while ago. I'm finally posting it. stole some of my formatting. Originally, all the paragraphs in Rukia's perspective were indented to separate them from Ichigo's point of view. Anything that relates to the two of them connecting, such as dialogue, is centered.

* * *

**Morning Convergence**

Ichigo starts every morning with a run around the campus, enjoying the quiet of a world still asleep. He wears shorts even in the icy skin-burning chill of winter because he is both stubborn and eager to feel alive.

Rukia begins her mornings standing on a rooftop, staring out across the town she is to protect. She knows the moment Ichigo wakes up, but she only sometimes goes to meet him on his morning run because she is both stubborn and eager to feel alive. On cooler days, she brings an extra blanket.

He likes the way his feet make even rhythms that change depending on whether he is running on grass or concrete or gravel. He likes the way the skin on his bare arms prickles under the touch of the wind. He likes when he can feel the warmth of her presence on those sometimes mornings, before his eyes find the curve of her hips and the shine of her eyes.

She likes the way the thick muscles tense under his wind-reddened skin as his graceful, efficient strides bring him around the bend of the lake. She likes the way he pretends not to know she is there until she steps out of the shadows and stands in his path with her arms crossed and stance wide. She likes when he smirks at her with a mischievous determination in his eyes and sprints faster.

They both like when he tackles her and rolls her to the ground next to him.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, they lie on the grass.

_"I can always tell when you're there, Rukia."_

_"But you never know before, do you?"_

_"No."_

_"Isn't it more fun that way?"_

Even though he only shrugs, he knows the answer is 'yes' because of the anxious exhilaration mingling with the endorphins in his blood.

Even though he only shrugs, she knows the answer is 'yes' because she can feel the frenzied beating of his heart against her cheek.

They listen to the sounds of the lake water slapping the rocks and the trees dancing and the birds greeting the sun. She doesn't speak until the chattering of his teeth is added to the paraphernalia of sound.

_"Fool. You've been a human your whole life and you don't yet know that you'll freeze?"_

_"I've definitely spent at least a cumulative year in Soul Society."_

_"Does that make it better?"_

_"I'm not cold, anyway."_

She leans up on a thin, pointed elbow and stares at him.

He doesn't meet her eyes but he is smiling.

_"How have you managed to live this long?"_

_"Good Karma. You know, I read this book once—"_

_"No. No books."_

_"If you spent more time reading, it might spare the world from those deformed drawings you call art."_

She punches him in the arm.

He grunts.

_"When I was young, I was taught a wise saying. It goes like this: all times are not for all things. Everything has its—"_

His finger on her lips stops her.

_"Shhh… You're ruining the moment."_

He wants to laugh at the way her eyes bulge and her cheeks puff like she is a balloon about to pop. He thinks of a cork being pulled from a wine bottle when he removes his hand from her mouth.

She wants to murder him in some horrific way but she also wants to laugh because she remembers a time when he was younger and she bested him in every argument they had. She thinks of blooming tiger lilies beside the Rukongai River when he removes his hand from her mouth.

_"Come on…"_

_"Ichigo…"_

_"Come on!"_

He pulls her to the lakeside and wraps his arms around her.

She unfolds the blanket and drapes it over their shoulders.

And, staring out at the glass-like water reflecting a pink and purple tinged sky, he imagines that it is hundreds of years ago, and that he is a Samurai and she the lady he has sworn to protect. He looks down at the gleaming mass of her hair that is dark enough to have captured a starless night and he has to amend his fantasy. She is a Samurai too, but though they fight together, he always protects her.

And, staring out at the wisps of yellow-touched clouds caught in the treetops, she imagines that it is years in the future, and that he is a Soul Society Captain and she is his Vice Captain, battling beside him. She looks up at the square set of his jaw with the orange stubble of quiet rebellion and she has to amend her fantasy. She is a Captain too, but they still battle side-by-side, and she forces him to allow her to protect him every once in a while.

_"You know Rukia, I worried once…"_

_"I'm shocked."_

_"I worried once that we wouldn't have anything in common."_

_"Well, you were obviously wrong."_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Because I worried the same thing."_

He turns his auburn eyes to her.

She meets him with a mingling of violet and indigo.

_"Oi, Rukia?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Good morning."_

_"Good morning, Ichigo."_

He smiles.

She smiles.

They both feel alive.

* * *


End file.
